


Unnamed Rose

by deutschgreen



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28750629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschgreen/pseuds/deutschgreen
Summary: The blond executioner has a fierce lover. He doesn't know where the silverhead hunter came from.
Relationships: Alfred/Bloody Crow Of Cainhurst (Bloodborne), Bloody Crow of Cainhurst/Eileen the Crow (Bloodborne)
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> English Version of 无名玫瑰https://archiveofourown.org/works/26527663/chapters/64659343
> 
> Just a direct translation and I'm too tired to tailor the wording, so please forgive if my writing is not that fluent
> 
> Kind of a "Romeo and Juliet in Yharnam" story - A couple of readers has painted drawings after reading it (And I'm so glad that they liked it!), I'll post them out when they finish painting :D
> 
> Full of cheesy stuff 
> 
> I am an atheist and you have been warned

Everyone knows that the blonde executioner has a stern lover.

Quick and crisp, if they had to choose a weapon to kill themselves with, sure the Yharnamites would choose to have their necks wiped out by the slender blade in his hand rather than have their arms and legs smashed by the church's giant hammer. Hunters, on the other hand, who still had their sanity left often saw them hunting in pairs, stone hammer crushing beasts in their path, while long blade took the heads of the frenzied as easily as one could pluck ripe fruits.

"Chikage," the lover murmured the blade’s name, as if he loved it more than the warmth of the partner beside him, "its name is Chikage, and it is the only relic from my mother."

At first Alfred did not like to see him bleed - indeed he did not like to see anyone bleed - and had persuaded him to give up the terrible weapon and use the threaded cane or holy blade produced by the Church instead. But his stubborn lover said that his blood had long been symbiotic with the blade and that sealing it would only cost him his own life. With these cruel words, his lover came up and kissed Alfred's soft temples, his satin silver hair cascading over the shoulders as if cut by the moonlight from the window.

When not hunting, Alfred would survey the streets of Yharnam with the pale man, looking for hints of his target, or spend long, unbroken hours lingering and making love in Alfred's modest chamber. Alfred is not particularly fond of blood healing, but he finds much he never knew he was after in slurping the other's blood, which is sweet and seductive, lulling him into visions of magnificent corruption, only to be awakened by his lover's cool touch and continue his next unending obsession.

And as he and the moon-scented hunter joined forces to slay the Blood-Starved Beast, sharing in the joy of victory, he was startled to realise that he had not been praying for months.

"To whom and for whom do you pray?" The lover looked at him in disbelief, sharp mockery flowing from the pupils of his emerald eyes. He loathed the miasma and flames of Old Yharnam and had never stepped through the door with the warning written on it.

"To the Great Ones, for Martyr Logarius. Let us cleanse these foul streets and let the last of the vilebloods end in my hands."

The lover lapsed into a long silence before resuming tending to his beloved blade. The blade was first wiped clean with a silk handkerchief and then slowly slathered with fragrant turpentine. The silvery white blade shone so brightly that it reflected the silhouette of a man. Alfred opened his mouth to see his face reflected in it, but not a single word came out.

The young outsider had gone off to the Chalice Dungeons, not been seen for weeks. Alfred wanted to ask him about the castle of Cainhurst, but was unable to find any opportunity to do so. His black-feathered lover was currently hunting a deranged bloodthirsty man alongside an older crow hunter. Alfred recalled that he had jokingly asked the lover to finish him off with Chikage when his pupils got clouded, only to get a return of an overly serious consideration and an overly deliberate "I do”.

Speaking of Eileen, the lover happened to tell him his story. His family died in a tragic vendetta at his youth, he himself, however, managed to escape since he happened to be out on the town. After years of exile, he was sheltered by Eileen, hunter of hunters, then became what he appears today. Alfred's past is, in his own words, "not much to write home about". He was born in Yharnam, joined the Healing Church, hunted beasts in the plague. After that, out of the needs of the Church and his personal beliefs, he joined the Executioners to wipe out the remnants of the vilebloods in the world. But his lover didn't seem to be bored, pestering him over and over again about the Healing Church, about Byrgenwerth that had been closed off in the thick of the forest, about the ancient taboos.

"The vilebloods are the incarnation of Lorelei on the ground, the root of all that is unclean. Wherever they pass, not a sober soul can be left behind."  
"Are you not afraid? The sailors who are bewitched by the Banshees would lose their nature, forget their soul, leaving everything behind and sink forever into the deep."  
"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, the Radiance is with me. My dear murderer and beloved, do you not trust my heart?"  
"I do."  
"Then would you tell me about it? Your childhood, I am sure, was very different from my boring life, and it is always good to know the differences in all things in the world."

The silver-haired hunter added two cubes of sugar to his Chai - ordinary sugar seems to be a rarity in Yharnam these days, for the Yharnamites had forgotten the taste of everything but blood - and sprinkled cinnamon powder into it. The warm aroma began to steam up, Alfred took a deep breath, only to cringe: the Church forbade all pleasures related to the flesh, stealing sweets would lead to severe punishment . Alfred once stuffed a piece of crude hard candy in his mouth and had the misfortune to have to crunch it when called in for questioning by a senior clergyman. The sharp edge cut his tongue as he tasted his own blood for the first time . The candy made it flood with a cheap sweetness that didn't belong to him. The sharp sting was something he has never forgotten.

"Mother was very good at making raspberry jam, her hand was as steady in blending the flavours as it was with a weapon. Even our family chef of many years had to compliment her skills for that.

"Father was a gentleman of good manners. He spent long hours grooming his hair and beard, my sister and I would always sneak in and pull his hair, causing him to get furious and not be able to spare us.

"Summer is everyone's favourite season. The grapes were ripe and everyone had to go and pick some. For me, I had to move from my room on the top floor to the ground floor, it was just too hot.

"In the winter...it snows and then ......"

He doesn't speak any more.

Alfred fiddled with the coals in the fireplace, letting them burst back into scattered sparks, then stood up and fetched the blanket on the back of his chair to wrap his lover tightly. The whitehead hunter, who seemed to be a ghost of his past, stared unconsciously into the void, with such force that Alfred feared the corners of his eyes might crack and bleed. So Alfred rubbed his fingers together and brushed the cold eyelids with his fingertips.

This progressed logically to the bed, where they licked and kissed each other's necks, their fingertips tangling in each other's hair. Alfred was extraordinarily partial to lifting one of the silver-haired hunter's thighs, feeling the large, hideous burn mark on the inside with the tip of his tongue, enjoying the lover asking him to stop with that quivering, raspy voice. Alfred himself was rarely wounded in battle, his robust chest scarred sparingly. He himself knew that his extraordinarily obsessive display of these battle scars was more than a little morbid. At first this was just licking the blood from the cuts Chikage had made in the lover’s pale wrist; then he began to enjoy biting the lover's neck with canine teeth, drinking the blood and watching the scarlet wounds gradually heal; now he tore the scar on his inner thigh apart, creating new scars and feeling emboldened by his own madness.

I will consume his blood one day, Alfred thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred knew where the crows were.

Back then, when the night of the hunt wasn’t that long, when Yharnam could still call itself a living city, he had visited Father Gascoigne, who was also a hunter of the Church.

Call it a visit, but it was a watch, the Church never showed mercy to any individual who might be bestial. If there was even the slightest hint of bestiality, he would quickly erase them from Yharnam, as discussed.

He was not, in fact, the only one with the same aim at that time. The hunter of hunters are killers dressed in crow garbs who do not hunt beasts, only send away the hunters who still have hearts. They are birds that lurk in the darkness of the night, measuring the value of their targets with the pupils of their abyssal eyes. Eileen warned him long ago that he must no longer compete with her for the job of killing people, and Alfred ignored.

The Gascoigne couple, their daughter Violet, Henrik, and Eileen. The executioner thought of the people he would meet today, stepping through the sticky pool of blood and knocked on the father's door.

Much to his surprise, it was none of the above who opened the door. The hunter in the crow garb and silver helmet coughed softly, his voice a little raspy, but undoubtedly from a young male. It was not Eileen. The Crow seemed nervous at the sight of Alfred's costume, his right hand resting on the hilt of the blade, almost in a combat stance.

"I am a beast hunter from the Healing Church, may I ask you? "

That intricately carved helmet lifted and the young crow's tense muscles relaxed slightly, seemingly from the realization that Alfred was not hostile: "Eileen is my teacher."

So he was sort of witnessing the crows' heritage? Alfred didn't really want to bother with such trivialities and went straight in, dealing with a few pleasantries with Father Gascoigne. The father's eyes were covered with gauze so that the state of his pupils could not be seen, but at least he was behaving as usual and his hands were not growing coarse black hair as he poured tea for the guests. The executioner judged that he was not in danger of bestialisation at this moment, so his answers became more natural. As the conversation progressed to Yharnam's supply of mercury bullets, he heard the sound of a piano. Yes, Gascoigne and his wife Viola both loved music, they would of course have a piano.

Gascoigne gestured for him to go to the piano room. He saw at the door that it was the young hunter who was playing a piece of music he could not name, but which was very light and joyful. Gascoigne’s daughter, Violet, stood at the piano, chubby pink arms behind her back, little leather shoes tapping out a rhythmic beat on the floor.

"I don't want to hear a tune today, I want to see what you look like! Aunty Eileen says you can just recognise the beak mask so there's no need to recognise your face, but you're not wearing that."

The little girl's request sounded too good to refuse. The crow hunter hesitated for a few seconds before he greeted Alfred and unbuckled his helmet. He straightened his mussed hair and his deep pool-like eyes looked at them openly from beneath snow-coloured lashes.

Alfred had never seen such corpse-like pale skin before as he felt more than a little ghastly; he had heard that some illnesses could make a person's skin and hair take on such a hue and be extraordinarily light-shy. Perhaps it was not right to expose another person's scars to strange eyes? It would be a disservice after all. He politely asked the Crow to put his helmet back on.

The young man with silver hair froze and laughed softly as his left hand, pressed to the pistol at his waist relaxed, "Ah... I'm sorry if my looks offended you." He didn't put on his helmet immediately, but turned away as if to avoid eye contact. Long hair falling loose over the back of his shoulders, looking soft and tired as he looked down and reassembled the brace.

I MESSED UP, Alfred thought.

"............ I'm sorry, you have the right to look like this, never mind me -"

But Violet had stiffened her upper lip in aggravation on the verge of tears. Alfred hurriedly shut up as Gascoigne came over and picked up his daughter, gesturing threateningly at them both in a less than friendly manner.

Such a bizarre and heartwarming scene, to see two evil men with their own agendas gathered in the home of a former Church hunter, happily comforting a seven or eight year old girl.

Alfred had been around the Gascoigne home a few times since but, as he expected, never saw the white-haired crow hunter again.

This was a matter of course. He has been raised in the small chapel with the orphans adopted by the Church. Whenever one of them grew attached to a children's book or a string of rosary beads and wanted to stay with them for a long time, these items always disappeared inexplicably, without exception.

_Do not get attached to anything, or you will be controlled by them and will be resentful for lacking them._

_Do not masturbate; sex that is not for the purpose of procreation is evil._

_Be zealous in your treatment of others._

_Be caring for your fellow man._

_Be faithful to the faith._

_But remember to be cautious of all the horrible things that make the hunter's heart palpitate, which will kill you._

That frightening hunter is but another book, another string of rosary beads, another godmother. It is not worth mentioning, not even worth remembering.

Like that hard candy.

* * *

Until he actually came across huge blood lickers on the streets of Yharnam. These hungry fleas were fast and vicious, hundred times deadlier than the average werewolves. Their poisoned blood arrows quickly brought down the executioner who was not adept to deal with such foes.

The sound of a sharp blade slicing through the air reached his ears, but Alfred could no longer identify with his own eyes which of his still sane colleagues it was.

The black veil of death did not cover him with mercy though.

Pain returned to his body, as did consciousness. He felt someone was holding his head and gagging him with something soft. A sweet liquid that made him swallow subconsciously as it flowed down his throat and into his body, bringing searing, life-giving warmth.

He opened his eyes. After a brief loss of focus he saw that it was the whitehead crow hunter half-kneeling at his side, the hard leg armour still resting a little uncomfortably on the back of the executioner through his heavy robes. Alfred realised that it was because the man was supporting himself on these armoured thighs. The visor of the silver helmet was tossed aside and the blood running down the corners of the Crow’s lips added some colour to his ghastly white face, making him look less horrible but turned grotesquely gentle.

"Did you save me?"

Without a word, the Crow dipped his head and bit down on his slender wrist, his sharp canine teeth tearing open the already healing wound, taking a mouth full of blood and covering Alfred's lips again. There were so many things Alfred wanted to ask him, to ask where he had been before, to ask why he had saved himself, even to ask why he found the Crow so terrifying. But the blood rushing to his lips and teeth filled his mind with crude and wild fantasies, he struggled and gave up, finally reaching out his arms, which had regained their strength, and wrapping them around the silver-haired hunter's upper body. He responded passionately to the lust-tinged kiss.

What happened afterwards was entwined between the hot flow of his lower body and the Crow’s thin lips and tongue. The hunter who had brought Alfred's blood to life also took him to the peak of his lust. The murky white liquid hanging from his silver hair and lips as if to melt into one.

Alfred grabbed the other Crow's wrist in one hand, feeling his fingers weaker than usual, was he trying to ask the Crow to stay? When they were only meeting for the second time but he was doing all he could to save him?

"I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere." The whitehead hunter held Alfred's body which was trembling in pleasure. That embrace was not warm to say the least, but it was determined and secure.

Once again, Alfred’s mouth tasted of blood. This time, it was not his own, and the tip of his tongue felt no pain while the 'candy' was holding his hand to support him.

Alfred fell into love, headfirst.


End file.
